


breaking

by foolondahill17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel is the Winchester bros' therapist, Crying Dean Winchester, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Please someone give Dean Winchester a hug, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, The First Blade (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: “Dean,” says Cas, watching every move. His hand spasms oddly on the floor, almost like he meant to reach out and grab one of Dean’s hands, and Dean wishes –Because it might be easier. Might be easier if someone held Dean’s hands, kept them from hurting anyone else. It might be easier if Dean could just open his Goddamn mouth and tell Cas that he’s been chewing on Cain’s words all night: “My story began when I killed my brother and that’s where your story inevitably will end.”Sam and Cas deal with the emotional fallout after Dean kills Cain. Coda for 10x14 The Executioner’s Song.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 21
Kudos: 135





	breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Want some unadulterated angst? Here, have some unadulterated angst. (with a sprinkle of Destiel undertones, but you can ignore ‘um if that’s not your cup of tea.) 
> 
> So, in season 10 Sam and Cas are constantly making remarks about the fact that “Dean’s getting worse, etc.” but we never actually see Dean getting worse. Sure, we see him going haywire, like, twice, but other than that he’s just aggro in the way Dean has always been aggro. So, clearly, there’s been a lot of shit going down off camera, enough to make Sam and Cas as concerned as they are throughout the season. Here’s a glimpse of what “getting worse” looks like. 
> 
> Content warning: be aware of some pretty frank discussions about self-harm and suicidality, also panic attacks, memories of childhood neglect/abuse, and allusions to past sexual trauma, but nothing graphic.

It’s supposed to be a good thing, Sam reminds himself, Dean’s new rash of honesty. Sam can count on one hand the number of times Dean’s said something other than _I’m fine_ after Sam’s _you okay?_ But in the past month, alone, Dean’s actually answered _no_ to that question twice. 

And that’s supposed to be a good thing. It’s supposed to mean that Dean’s getting better at opening up – the thing Sam’s been nagging him about since, what, forever? – that Dean’s getting better at being vulnerable, at trusting Sam to handle that vulnerability, maybe even taking strides toward asking for help. 

It’s supposed to be a good thing. 

But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a good thing, not now, with the smell of hay, sweat, and blood in Sam’s nose, nausea and fear swooping in his stomach. 

It takes about half a second after Crowley blinks out of the barn for Dean’s knees to fold. Sam knows Dean only held on that long because no way was he going to let Crowley watch him crumble. 

Sam sees Cas steps toward Dean out of the corner his eye, but it doesn’t matter, because Sam’s there first. He hooks his arms around Dean’s back, and Dean falls into him. Sam sets his legs firmly on the straw-littered floor, and he doesn’t stagger. 

He can’t give his brother much, lately, but he can give him this. 

“You did it,” Sam whispers over Dean’s shoulder, clapping his brother on the back, half unaware of what he’s saying. His head is full of the fact that Dean’s near-collapse is probably due to some kind of injury as much as its due to physical and emotional exhaustion. “Dean, you did it.” 

Dean is shaking. It’s the first thing Sam truly registers. A full-body tremor that makes vibrations rise in Sam’s own chest. 

“Sammy,” Dean finally says, but he doesn’t continue, whether because he wasn’t planning on it or because he can’t, Sam can’t tell. 

“Cas, can you…?” Sam turns to look at the angel over Dean’s shoulder. Cas is staring at Dean with a strange expression, half concern and half alarm. The First Blade drips Cain’s blood on the floor, dangling from Cas’s tight fist. 

Cas seems to know what Sam’s asking without Sam needing to continue, and his eyebrows drop. He shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Sam. I used what I could against Cain. I –”

“It’s okay,” Dean says roughly. He stirs weakly in Sam’s arms, like he’s trying to find his footing again and push away, but Sam grips him tighter, telling his brother without words that he’s not going anywhere and hoping that, for once, Dean will understand. “Don’t – Cas, I’m okay.” 

Dean’s words make a spark of anger ignite in Sam’s chest, and maybe it’s because he’s so close to crying that his emotions jump to anger – because fear, relief, and rage have always lived in close quarters inside Sam’s core. 

“You’re not,” Sam says tightly. He swallows, because he doesn’t want to start yelling. He honestly doesn’t think anyone in this barn will be able to keep it together if Sam starts yelling; he’s not sure he’s ever seen his big brother so close to breaking before. Even all those years ago, when Sam came out of Bobby’s to find Dean leaning against the dented Impala, crowbar at his side, even then Sam doesn’t think Dean was as brittle as he is now. 

“I’m going to,” Sam takes a deep breath and adjusts his hold around Dean’s back. Dean is heavy in Sam’s arms. _Dead weight,_ he thinks and immediately tells himself to _shut up_ because he doesn’t need to think about the fact that the last time Dean was this close he was bleeding from his chest and choking on the words _proud of us._ “I’m gonna check you out, man.” 

Dean doesn’t argue. That’s supposed to be a miracle in and of itself, but it just makes a rock sink into Sam’s stomach. Because Dean is supposed to argue. 

Sam lowers Dean as gently as possible to the ground. He props his brother against the support post. Dean winces as Sam maneuvers him. 

“Where are you hurt?” Sam asks. And he wonders whether Dean has the vocabulary, let alone the desire, to even begin to explain to Sam the myriad of ways in which he hurts. 

Dean’s eyes slip across the room, refuse to latch onto Sam’s face, and finally land on Cas, to the Blade at Cas’s side. 

“G-get it away from me,” Dean says. His voice is ruined. And it’s supposed to be a good thing, Sam tells himself. Supposed to be a good thing that Dean’s asking for help. 

Sam’s hand finds Dean’s wrist. He grips his brother tightly, not entirely sure if he wants to ground Dean or if he needs to ground himself. “Cas,” he says when Cas doesn’t move and Dean keeps shaking, pulse jumping in his jaw, “You’d better –”

“Of course,” Cas says at once. “I’ll meet you at the bunker later.” Cas turns on his heel without another word. Sam can hear his shoes crunch on the hay as he walks out of the barn; Dean’s eyes, unfocused and wet, follow him out.

“Dean,” Sam says gently, wanting to pull his brother back from the brink, because Dean is teetering. Sam can tell. He can feel the hum of desperation and pain under Dean’s skin. “You did it, man. You’re okay.” 

“I – I,” Dean licks his lips. He still won’t look Sam in the eye. “I wanted him to – I almost let him – it would have been easier…better if he had –”

Sam grips Dean’s arm so tightly Dean winces, but it makes him stop talking. Sam’s heart thuds in his ears. He isn’t entirely sure what Dean’s trying to say, but he knows that if Dean doesn’t shut up right the fuck now Sam’s going to plow his fist into his brother’s face. 

He wants to tell Dean something that will make this go away, give his brother something to latch onto so the terrible, helpless look in Dean’s eyes leaves and doesn’t come back, but all Sam can think of are more empty platitudes like _you’re okay. I promise you’ll be okay. You made it out alive. And if you hadn’t – Dean, if you hadn’t_

So, instead Sam says, “You’ve got glass in your face.” And he tries to smile. He really tries. But there’s something lodged in his throat that stops him. 

It makes Dean pull his eyes forward. He swallows. Sam can almost see the emotional walls Dean’s putting back up. “Yeah…that’ll happen when your face breaks a window,” he says weakly. 

Sam has to talk himself through the motions of letting go of his brother’s arm: loosen his fingers, open his fist, reach for Dean’s chin. Dean tries to duck his face out of Sam’s reach, but Sam catches his cheek with his palm and fixes him in place. 

“Dude, chill,” Sam huffs. He doesn’t mean to sound so demanding, but there’s a hot, pulsing urgency filling his entire body, the steady knowledge that Sam’s presence is the only thing tethering Dean to the here and now. He doesn’t have time for Dean’s shit. “You probably have a concussion.” 

“M’alright, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. There’s a slight slur in his brother’s voice, and Sam knows his brother is crashing hard from the adrenaline high of the fight. Sam probably has about five minutes for a cursory examination before getting Dean back off the ground becomes the main issue. 

Sam fishes for his phone from his back pocket. He turns on the flashlight app and tells Dean, “Keep your eyes open.” 

Dean winces as Sam directs the light into Dean’s eyes; his pupils are slow but reactive. Sam turns off the flashlight, tucks his phone away, and then reaches for Dean’s chest, because getting tossed through a window probably means some kind of damage to Dean’s abdomen. 

Sam starts to lift Dean’s shirt, but Dean fumbles to stop his fingers. There’s a momentary flicker of panic in his brother’s eyes that makes Sam’s stomach cramp, because he knows Dean doesn’t like being undressed; it’s something Sam’s noticed, sure, but nothing he’s ever had the courage to ask about. 

“It’s just me, Dean,” Sam says softly. “Gotta check out your ribs.” 

“Gotta buy me a drink first,” Dean says, but the joke lands in dead air, because Dean’s voice is flat and his eyes are empty. And he’s still shaking. Maybe shaking harder now than he had before. He’s probably going into shock. 

Sam carefully rolls up Dean’s shirt and presses a hand to Dean’s chest. The skin there is warm, already bruising red, but it doesn’t look deformed in any way that could indicate a fractured or displaced rib. 

“Didn’t feel ‘em break,” Dean says on an exhale, flinching again under Sam’s firm touch. 

Sam probes Dean’s torso, but doesn’t find any movement, swelling, or dips that shouldn’t be there. He lets go of Dean’s shirt and sits back on his heels, letting his brother tug the fabric back over his stomach. 

Then Sam moves to Dean’s bloodied knuckles. One after the other, he examines Dean’s hands, spreading the fingers flat even as Dean hissed in protest, and then asks his brother to make a fist. Again, no breaks, just a lot of nasty bruising and split skin. 

Sam fixes his brother with a look he hopes will translate the need for an honest answer to Sam’s next question, because Sam needs to know if Dean’s hiding any other injuries that require care beyond backseat triage. “Are you okay if we go straight to the bunker, or do you need us to stop somewhere?” 

“No,” says Dean, “I’m okay.” As if to prove this point, Dean presses one palm against the ground and makes to shove himself back to his feet. 

Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s a mark of how exhausted and weak Dean is that Sam’s touch forces him back to the ground. 

“Put your arm around my shoulder,” Sam says. 

“I’m fine,” Dean growls, and Sam knows he’s fast approaching the point of no return: where Dean will again decide that vulnerability equates weakness and he’ll shut down. 

“Like hell you are,” Sam says. He grabs hold of Dean’s wrist and drags his arm over his shoulder. Dean doesn’t protest as Sam hauls his brother upright. Dean’s face, already pale, loses even more of its color: specks of blood stand out starkly against his white skin. Dean totters, trying to find sturdy footing, and Sam fixes his arm around his brother’s back. 

“I’ve got you, man,” Sam murmurs, even though he knows Dean will hate him for it. 

Dean grunts something that might be a “Bitch,” and Sam chuffs something that isn’t quite a laugh. 

They make slow progress out of the barn. Dean doesn’t favor anything in a way that suggests a serious injury; he just seems incapable of making his way on his own. Sam contemplates uneasily how much of Dean’s internal stores his had to burn to use the Blade and not be consumed by it, to make himself kill Cain and still come back down those stairs. Sam notices Dean’s breathing gets heavier as they approach the Impala, waiting in the cool, still night air. There’s sweat beaded at Dean’s hairline. He keeps swallowing like he’s afraid he’s going to be sick. 

Sam remembers being fourteen, the first time Dean ever got blackout drunk without Dad around to help. Dad was three weeks overdue from a rugaru hunt, hadn’t called in ten days, and the money had run out. They were living on canned soup and Funyuns. Or at least Sam was. Sam knows by now that Dean often just went hungry when it got really bad. 

Dean spent every night at any bar that would let him in, even though it was a small town and most of the bartenders knew Dean was underage, and, as a rule, his hustling schtick only worked once before people caught on and got mad. Dean was out to four o’clock in the morning. Sam was scared out of his mind, so he stuffed a gun into the back of his jeans, and walked from bar to bar, looking for his brother. He finally found him in some dump that stank of spilled whiskey and marijuana, slumped over a table and muttering about _just one more game, man. Give him a chance to win it back._

Sam was still about a foot and a half shorter than his brother at that point. He could barely drag Dean to his feet, let alone out of the bar. By the time they stumbled back to the motel room, Sam’s body was in so much pain he could barely breathe. He dumped Dean onto the nearest bed, even though that was Dad’s bed, but fucking Dad wasn’t fucking there and Sam didn’t fucking care. 

Dean heaved himself onto his stomach and threw up over the side of the bed. He collapsed back onto the mattress, white-faced and trembling. Sam spent the rest of the night too terrified to fall asleep in case Dean stopped breathing or choked on his own vomit. 

Dean woke up at noon, so hungover he couldn’t get out of bed, and that’s, of course, when Dad decided to show up. Dad screamed at Dean for a half an hour for leaving Sam alone while he went out to have a good time and for leaving a fifty-dollar tab at the bar, _drinking and fucking and don’t you ever learn, boy? Can’t I trust you to do anything right?_ And Dean cowered under the noise, face blanching in pain, but he just sat there and took it. Because Sam knows by now that there is something inside his brother that tells Dean he deserves to be treated like shit. 

Sam tried to intervene, but then Dad rounded on Sam, and there were only a few times in Sam’s life that he was afraid Dad would hit him: that was one of them. But Dad never hit him. Up to a point, Sam never believed Dad hit Dean, either, but now he’s not so sure. 

There are so many things about Dean’s childhood that Dean managed to keep hidden from him: Sonny’s home and how many meals Dean missed so Sam wouldn’t go hungry and the three-hundred bucks Dean somehow rounded up to pay for Sam’s application fees. 

So, yeah, hindsight’s twenty-twenty, and Sam can forgive a lot about how Dad raised them, but he can’t forgive Dad for the way he treated them, sometimes. He can understand, sure, on an abstract sense that Dad was hungover, himself, after a rugaru almost tore off his arm and he had to guzzle cheep vodka before he could stitch himself up. He can understand that Dad was worried out of his skull about them, that he’d spent ten hours in the car imagining horrible visions of fire, and blood, and dead bodies. He could understand that, yeah. But he can’t understand why Dad couldn’t just fucking listen, couldn’t see that Dean was trying his fucking best, that Dean did more to raise Sam than Dad ever did. 

Back in the present, Sam takes a deep breath to steady himself. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so angry at Dad, and he thinks maybe that’s what psychologists call projection, that in reality he’s really angry at Dean for not – but, no, in reality Sam’s just angry: angry at Cain and the Mark for hurting his brother, at the world for not giving them a moment’s peace, at himself for not knowing what to do to help. 

Sam props Dean up against the side of the car and opens the passenger side door for him. Dean manages to crawl onto the bench under his own power, then he wilts against the seatback and shuts his eyes. His chest heaves as he tries to level out through pain and nausea. 

Sam leaves Dean to go to the trunk. He snatches the first-aid kit, a bottle of water, and the tattered wool blanket they keep for emergencies. He’s back by Dean’s side in a second, but it feels like too long. He’s got a strange, unshakable feeling in his stomach that Dean’s going to vanish at any moment; that Sam will blink and his big brother will be gone; just like before – 

Before when Sam left to get drunk and, when he came back, it was to Dean’s empty bed, the stench of blood and sulfur clinging to the sheets. 

And that Goddamn stupid note. 

Because Sam’s not. He’s never letting Dean go. 

“Hydrate.” Sam stuffs the bottle into Dean’s hands, startling Dean’s eyes open again. Sam tries to ignore how hard Dean’s fingers tremble as he twists the cap off the bottle and takes a couple careful sips of water. 

Sam opens the kit and roots around until he pulls out a roll of gauze. He unspools a length and snaps it off with his teeth. Dean is quiet and pliable as Sam takes his hands again, winding gauze around one fist after the other. Then he tears open an alcohol wipe and presses it to one of the worse cuts near Dean’s hairline. 

“Damn,” Dean says through gritted teeth and bucks slightly under the sting.

“Don’t be a baby,” Sam says. His cheeks feel stiff and unused as he again attempts to smile. 

“You’re a…baby,” Dean grunts in return. “Big harry baby.” 

Sam shakes his head, forces a laugh despite the painful squeeze around his heart, because he knows Dean’s trying so hard, so hard to keep cracking jokes for Sam’s benefit, trying to keep Sam’s head up because that’s what Dean does: looks after Sam. For once, just for Goddamn once, Sam wishes Dean would let Sam look after _him._

After he’s done picking out the larger pieces of glass from Dean’s face, he grabs the blanket and makes to drape it over Dean’s shoulders, but Dean finally seems to realize Sam’s been mollycoddling him, because he blocks Sam with his arm. 

“Dude,” he protests, “Can you not?”

“Just take it, man,” Sam sighs, “You’re allowed to be cold.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t let Sam cover him, but he at least accepts the blanket and drapes it over his legs. Sam counts it as much of a win as he’s going to get. 

Then Sam rounds the car and gets into the driver’s side. “Try to get some sleep,” Sam suggests as he starts the car. “We’ve got a long drive.” 

Dean barely grunts in response. He turns his head to stare out the window. And then there’s just silence, filled with the growl of the Impala’s motor and the beating of Sam’s heart in his ears. 

And it feels like before: those few terrible days after the Purified Blood when Dean refused to eat or drink, unless it was whiskey, and he stayed curled up in bed, but he wasn’t sleeping and he barely talked and he only changed his clothes or took a shower because Sam asked him to, and at one point Sam was afraid his brother was going to slip into catatonia and never come out again. 

“How you holding up?” Sam can’t stop himself from asking, even though he told Dean to try to sleep, but he can’t bear the thought of his brother just fading away right now. 

Dean’s silent for long enough that Sam begins to wonder if his brother didn’t hear him: if he passed out or disassociated again like he’s done a handful of times since he got the Mark, like it’s tugging Dean off to some world Sam can’t be a part of, somewhere dark and full of death. 

“I don’t –” Dean stops. Gulps. He closes both fists tight around the edge of the blanket. His knuckles turn white so the blood caked on his skin stands out like black ink on paper. And honesty is supposed to be a good thing. Dean was about to say _I don’t know,_ and that’s supposed to be a good thing. 

Dammit. Sam blinks back the sudden stinging in his eyes, but it isn’t fair if he starts to fall apart right now, not when Dean needs him. 

“He –” Dean tries again. He’s still shivering, so Sam turns up the heat until it rattles. “He told me he wouldn’t stop. That he’d –”

“You’re not Cain, Dean,” Sam interrupts. 

“Yeah?” Dean turns his head to look at Sam. Sam makes the mistake of turning to meet his brother’s eyes, and he’d expected some kind of fierceness, the typical Dean stubbornness that Sam’s come to rely on all these years, but instead Dean is naked: afraid and broken. “Cause last time I checked, that’s why Cain chose me. Cause we’re so damn similar.” 

“Yeah,” Sam turns back to look at the road. He swallows to get rid of the painful lump in his throat. “But Cain didn’t have me, did he?” 

Dean doesn’t say anything. He turns his head to look back out of the window. Silence fills in the cracks around them. Sam lets it. He is too tired, now, to think of some way to reassure his brother. It all feels too big. 

Again, he thinks about those days after Dean turned back from being a demon. Those first few moments when Sam gently undid Dean’s bounds and Dean slumped, weak and trembling, in the chair. It took both Cas and Sam, one arm each, to hoist Dean to his feet, but Sam wasn’t going to let his brother sit in that Goddamn room for another Goddamn minute. 

“Wanna…wanna shower,” Dean mumbled, urgency apparent even in his wrecked voice, muzzy from exhaustion. 

“Sure, Dean, yeah,” Sam said immediately. 

“Of course,” Cas agreed. 

The two of them half-supported, half-dragged Dean to the shower room. When it became apparent that Dean wasn’t going to be able to manage under his own power, Cas bowed out awkwardly, “I’ll just…leave you two.”

“Cas, can you grab his robe?” Sam asked before Cas could disappear through the door. 

“Of course,” Cas said again. 

“Don’t be a pervert, Sam,” Dean protested when Sam made a grab for his overshirt. 

“Dude, you’ve been –” but Sam couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say _you’ve been a demon for months_ because that still wasn’t something he was letting himself close enough to examine. “Just let me help you, okay?” 

Dean grunted but didn’t complain when Sam helped him ease out of his shirt. Dean moved stiffly, like his entire body ached, but he didn’t appear to be badly injured. 

“Feels like I’ve been…hit by a Goddamn train,” Dean gasped after Sam tugged off his black t-shirt. Dean leaned over, bracing himself on the sink, breathing hard. 

Sam just waited for him to catch his breath, not wanting to push too hard or startle him, not wanting to topple his brother back to the other side of – 

No. 

Dean was okay. 

It was over, and Dean was okay. 

“I –” Dean gulped. “I tried to crack your head open with a Goddamn hammer, Sammy.” 

“It wasn’t you, Dean,” Sam said quickly. 

Dean lifted his head to look at Sam through the mirror. He looked devastated, and Sam wanted to throw up. Or scream. Or punch something. 

“Yeah?” Dean said. “Cause it wasn’t exactly like I was possessed by someone else.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam insisted. Because it wasn’t. Nothing. No one. Not even Dean. No one would ever be able to convince Sam that his big brother was anything but good. That the absolutely core of Dean was anything but good. “You went to Hell for me, man –” 

Sam tried to grab Dean’s arm, but Dean twisted out of the way. He nearly overbalanced, but caught himself with a hand to the wall. Sam hovered awkwardly, not sure whether he should risk the elbow to the face if he kept trying to help his brother. 

“I got this now, Sammy,” Dean said quietly, but firmly, looking at the ground. 

Sam swallowed. Emotional whiplash was something he’d come to expect when dealing with Dean, but it wasn’t something he’d ever get used to. “Sure.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “Sure man. Call me if you need anything?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “Sure.” And Sam didn’t believe him, but he left the bathroom anyway. 

He found Cas hovering in the hallway outside, holding Dean’s robe on his arm. “I did not want to, ah, interrupt,” Cas said. 

And that was somehow what did it: Cas holding Dean’s robe and Dean in the bathroom behind him, door shut, and so far away, and Sam so helpless, and –

Cas’s hand closed tight around Sam’s forearm. He peered into Sam’s face, eyes unbearably earnest and intense, just like they always were. “Your brother – he will be alright, Sam.” 

“Yeah,” Sam cleared his throat. He roughly cuffed his eyes and clapped Cas on the shoulder. “Yeah, sure, man. I’m just…just glad we got him back, is all.” 

Sam let Dean stay in the shower for fifty minutes before he acted on his worry and pounded on the bathroom door. 

“Man, you good?” he said. He could still hear the water running. Dean didn’t answer. “Dean?” Sam’s heart jackhammered in his chest. He shoved open the door, even though he knew perfectly well that Dean would hate him – probably throw something at him – if he came in without permission. 

“Dude, I’m coming in,” Sam announced loudly. The bathroom was clouded with steam. The mirrors over the double vanity dripped with condensation. “You alright?” 

Sam found Dean in one of the three shower stalls. He was sitting on the concrete floor, knees drawn to his chest. The heat of the water spilled out of the stall in waves. Dean’s skin was scalded red with it. 

“Dean –” Sam began, and didn’t know what else to say. Dean didn’t even seem to register Sam was there. There wasn’t anything in demon-curing lore about how to deal with the fallout. So, Sam snatched a couple towels and walked into the stall. 

First, he turned off the water. The faucet was so hot Sam hissed when he closed his fist around the metal. Second, he tucked one of the towels around Dean’s legs and the other over his shoulders. 

“Dean…” Sam tried again, voice soft. “You with me, man?” 

Dean lifted his chin; he knocked the back of his head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t think it’ll let me die, Sammy,” he whispered. 

Sam’s stomach turned over. He tried to remind himself to breathe. And he hated himself a little when he immediately scanned the shower for any blades or other weapons that Dean might have used to – 

Dean’s too-long hair dripped onto the towel around his shoulders. 

“I – I did so many things, Sammy,” Dean continued, sounding broken, sounding so unlike Dean that Sam wanted to shout at him to shut up. 

“It isn’t your fault,” Sam fumbled stupidly. “I promise it wasn’t your fault, Dean.” 

Dean swallowed. He shut his eyes. “And I remember it. I remember…I wanted…Sammy, and it – it was like being back in Hell.” 

“Dean, you’re soaked,” Sam said. And he was a Goddamn hypocrite. Because Dean talking was supposed to be a good thing. And Sam was constantly begging Dean to just fucking talk, but, truth was, Sam couldn’t bear to hear this right now. He didn’t want to know what Dean had done; what Dean had felt. It was suddenly five years ago, when Dean pulled the Impala off the side of the road and started talking about _forty years_ and Sam started pleading in his mind _shut up shut up for the love of God shut up._

Dean’s eyes flickered back open. He seemed to realize where he was. “Right,” he said. He breathed deeply. “Right, yeah.” 

“Come on,” said Sam, and offered Dean a hand up. When he was back on his feet, Dean caught the towel around his hips, knotting it around his waist. 

“Here man,” Sam said when he was sure Dean was steady. He left to grab the robe Cas had brought and returned to Dean’s side. 

Dean grunted in thanks and pulled his arms into the robe. 

“You should really, ah,” Sam tried to sound normal, tried not to stare too hard at his brother’s steam-burned face and bloodshot eyes. “You should get some sleep, man. You’re exhausted.” 

“Sure, yeah,” said Dean. He dropped one of his towels to the ground. The other he rubbed over his hair. He stopped and frowned when he clearly realized how long it had gotten. “Just let me, ah…I’m gonna take care of this first, okay?”

“Dean, it can wait –”

“Sam,” Dean said abruptly, and Sam stopped. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam answered after a breath, hating how wrongfooted he felt, hating how he didn’t have a clue what to say. “Just – yeah. I’ll – you need anything, man?” 

Dean cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound normal, too. “Sure, ah, we got anything edible in this joint? I’m starved.” 

“Course,” Sam breathed. “I’ll, ah – bacon cheeseburger?” 

Dean grinned weakly, but he paled and gulped, clearly nauseas, and Sam thought the odds of his brother actually eating anything Sam brought home were next to none, but Sam couldn’t – he didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to do almost anything else than have to pick his brother off the wet shower floor again, and –

“Get into bed, man,” Sam said. “I’ll be back in under an hour.” 

“Will do,” said Dean, back already to Sam as he began rooting through the vanity’s drawers for the clippers. 

Sam left the bathroom without another word. 

_I don’t think it’ll let me die, Sammy._ Dean’s voice reverberates through Sam’s head as he drives down the highway. He must have zoned out, because he can’t remember driving the last few hours. Which is, admittedly, alarming. It’s been a rough day, and Sam’s exhausted. 

He tosses a look to Dean, who’s still slumped against the door, breath fogging up the window, and apparently asleep. 

Sam risks turning on the radio at low volume. He cracks the window open slightly, hoping the cool air will keep him more alert. Then he keeps his eyes peeled for the next exit turnoff, looking for a gas station and coffee. 

Dean moans in his sleep. He shifts slightly so the blanket falls off his legs and lands on the floormat. Sam’s eyes flicker to his brother, notes the crease between Dean’s eyebrows, the rise and fall of his chest. Dean’s moan turns into a whimper, something that sounds like _no stop._

Sam’s been privy to many of Dean’s nightmares. He usually doesn’t intervene unless things get really bad –

“Sam!” Dean snaps awake with a strangled yelp and Sam nearly barrels the car into oncoming traffic. 

“Shit!” Sam says, regaining control of the wheel. 

Dean gulps air in his seat. “Sammy – pull over.” Dean’s hands scrabble at the door handle. “Pull over.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Sam says on instinct, and shoves the Impala onto the side of the road. The tires grind against gravel, and before Sam pulls the lever into park, Dean has the door swung open. He stumbles out of his seat, lands hard on his knees a couple feet away, and heaves. 

“Dammit,” Sam says through gritted teeth. He checks for traffic before swinging his door open and leaping out of the car. He’s rounded the trunk and at his brother’s back in a second. 

Dean’s on all fours, arms quaking as he retches again. Sam’s palm lands on Dean’s shoulder. He rubs wide, slow circles into Dean’s back. 

“I’ve got you, man. I’m here,” he says. His lips feel numb. Dean coughs and spits. He’s mostly dry heaving, now. It’s not like he’s had a lot to eat, recently. But passing headlights reveal lines of red in the puddle of sick on the ground. Sam takes a sharp breath. “Dean, you’re –”

“Happened before, Sammy,” Dean says weakly. “Is alright. It’s – side effect of the Blade. It…wants….” 

“You were throwing up blood before?” Sam demands, and he doesn’t mean to sound angry, because he’s not angry, he’s just so damn worried. So worried he can barely see straight and – and maybe that’s how Dad felt, Sam wonders. Maybe this is how Dad felt, all those years, knowing his sons were in danger and not being able to do fuck-all to protect them. 

“M okay,” Dean says. He sits up on his heels. Sam turns to fish Dean’s discarded water bottle off the floor of the Impala. He grabs the blanket, too. He hands Dean the bottle, and Dean rinses his mouth out. Then Sam spreads the blanket across Dean’s trembling shoulders. His brother doesn’t protest. 

Sam figures the conversation about throwing up blood is going to have to wait. 

“You good to get back in the car?” Sam asks. 

“Is inevitable,” Dean murmurs. “He said it’s inevitable.” 

“What’s inevitable?” Sam says, words torn from his throat even though he’s screaming at himself to shut up. Fucking shut up. Because Sam doesn’t want to know. He wants so desperately for all this to go away. 

“Said I’d –” Dean wraps both arms around his middle. He rocks slightly, back and forth, and Sam closes his fingers over Dean’s shoulder, feels the coarse wool under his fingers. “Said I’d kill you, Sammy. Said I – inevitable – and – and –”

Dean’s not breathing right. Sam can feel his brother’s muscles strain as he pulls in air. His breaths catch in his chest and are released with sharp, trembling wheezes. 

“Hey,” Sam says urgently. He crouches at Dean’s side, leaves one arm around Dean’s back and finds Dean’s knee with his other hand. “Hey man, breathe. It’s okay. Just try to breathe.” 

Distantly, Sam knows his brother is having a panic attack. And Sam knows Dean must’ve had panic attacks before, even though he’s never let him see it. 

Sam knows because Sam’s had them plenty of times. Ridiculously, the first time it happened he was nineteen and had just failed an economics test, the first one of the semester, and if he failed that test, than that meant he was going to fail the next, and the next, and if he failed all the tests, then he failed the class, and if he failed the class his GPA would drop, and if his GPA dropped he wouldn’t be able to keep his scholarship, and if he lost his scholarship, he couldn’t stay at school, and if he couldn’t stay at school –

Jess found him on the bathroom. She held him and whispered soothing things into his hair while he leveled out. Afterward, she suggested he go to a session with one of the school-issued therapists. Sam did, because Jess asked, and the therapist taught him how to recognize the signs of another attack and taught him breathing exercises to ease himself through. 

Sam’s gotten pretty good at noticing the signs, good enough that Dean’s hardly ever seen it; except for late at night when Sam wakes up from nightmares. But they have separate rooms in the bunker, so that doesn’t happen often anymore. 

So, it isn’t ludicrous to think that maybe Dean’s good at hiding it, too. Especially because he’s so good at hiding so many other things. And Sam doesn’t understand why they can’t just admit it, the fact that both of them are floundering. That maybe it could be easier, if they learned to cope with this stuff together instead of always saving face.

“I’ve got you, man,” Sam says, over and over as Dean slowly catches his breath. “I’ve got you.” 

OOO 

Dean makes sure not to stay in the shower too long, twenty minutes tops, mostly because there’s no way in Hell he’s ever going to let Sam barge in on him again, cowering in the corner of the stall, butt naked, and barely lucid. 

One second he’d been fine – yeah, infant-weak and shivering, aching with every move and breath, but he’d been fucking _fine_ – the next moment he’d gone somewhere else, somewhere full of blood and tingling need, painful memories wracking through his body and buckling his knees until he was on the slick ground, turned the water scalding hot to decontaminate his body because _what if it came back?_ What if he blinked and his vision went colorless again? He blinked and he had the hammer again, blinked and was holding a razor, blinked and had Sammy’s blood on his hands because, this time, Cas wasn’t quick enough to stop him? 

And then he thought about that girl. That poor waitress. Anne Marie. And why does he have to remember every Goddamn detail? Every way he hurt her. Everything he always swore he’d never do to a girl because – because, yeah, fucking sure, he’s used girls just for sex before, but that’s always been mutual: just a quick screw, no strings attached. But he’s always been kind to them, all those girls. He’s never – he’d never – 

Fuck. 

He’d never make them think it was something else, manipulate them until they were so broken, they couldn’t bear to leave him, drain them until they were eating out of his fucking hand and – 

_“Wanna take those off for me?” she purred, and she was a teacher, and she was kind, so Dean did what she asked._

Fuck. 

But Dean _had._ With Anne Marie, Dean had. Because it was him. Everything about the past few months – every death, every punch thrown, everyone he fucked from Anne Marie to Crowley with his Goddamn hands – that was all Dean. Dean at his most base. When he told Sammy that if he’d wanted to be cured he wouldn’t have left, the pure, overwhelming fear in that chair as Sam plugged vial after vial of blood into Dean’s blood – that had all been Dean. 

Dean feels the memories building inside him. His breath hitches in his throat, and he can feel panic niggling at the corner of his brain, threatening to overtake him like it had earlier at the side of the road, and Dean thinks _no fuck no please no_ and slams his fist hard into the concrete wall of the stall. 

Pain shudders up his arm. Good. Fucking good. Because the pain clears his head, quick and harsh like he’s been doused by a bucket of ice water. His knuckles, already abused from his fight with Cain, start trickling blood again. 

Dean braces his hand against the wall, hangs his head, and lets the water run over him. He shuts his eyes, breathes deep even though it makes agony spike through his bruised ribs, makes fireworks go off behind his eyelids from the oxygen headrush. 

He remembers Sam, again, how Sam is probably pacing in the hallways, listening for anything that would give him permission to storm into the bathroom and ask Dean if he was okay. Sam, who said he was going to make Dean coffee. 

It’s enough to make Dean push himself off the wall. He shuts off the shower, grabs a towel, makes his way to the sink so he can shave. His knuckles ache on both hands, but they’ve already stopped bleeding. Accelerated healing or some shit. It’s not as quick as it had been when Dean was a demon, but it’s still faster than normal. 

Dean picks apart his razor, gingerly holds a blade at the tip of his fingers, and bites the edge into his upper arm. He watches as blood beads. He cuts again. Blood seeps out of the small wound, mixes with the water on his shower-damp skin, and runs pink down his arm. 

He watches, transfixed, as the wound knits itself together in front of his eyes. It’s scabbed over before a minute’s up. It’ll be a white scar in an hour. It’ll be completely gone in the morning. 

Dean’s gotten into this habit: just a quiet, quick check every day to see if the Mark is still working it’s magic. Just to make sure. 

And if he sometimes cuts deeper than he means to, if he sometimes draws ladder rungs into his skin with the blade, well, it’s not like anyone will know. He has so many scars. New ones won’t be noticed. 

But the cut heals, just like it always does, and Dean puts the razor back together, shaves quickly, without looking in the mirror, and gets dressed into clean clothes. 

Sammy’s in the kitchen. The coffeemaker sputters on the counter behind him. Cas isn’t back yet, and Dean’s stomach clenches in a way that might be fear and might be…something else. Because thinking of Cas makes him think about the First Blade. And thinking about the First Blade – 

“Hey,” says Sammy. 

“That better be for me,” says Dean. He fixes a smile on his face. The movement tugs at the scabbed cut on his lip, but he isn’t going to let Sammy see anything more than he’s already glimpsed today. He already came too close to breaking with Sammy in the car. 

Dean’s little brother doesn’t deserve that. Sam’s got enough on his shoulders. He’s always had more than enough on his shoulders, and now Dean’s just making it all worse. So, Dean smiles his thanks when Sam hurries to hand him a mug of coffee. He takes a seat at the table, even though he wants to turn tail and run back to his room, curl up in bed and never come back out. He concentrates on not trembling as he lifts the mug and takes a sip. 

Sam pours himself his own mug, clears his throat, and starts with that tone that means they’re about to have _a conversation,_ like the one Sam’s been biting his tongue on ever since Dean made him pull over so he could puke out his guts and almost hyperventilate. 

“Dean, um –” Dean looks up, because he’s not going to go all quiet on Sam, right now. He doesn’t want Sammy to worry. “You know, what you did back there,” but Dean can’t help his eyebrows from furrowing, because he doesn’t know how much more of Sam’s hopeless optimism he can take. 

Sam continues, haltingly, with one of those breathy little smiles that means he’s about a second away from crying: “It was incredible – if you can do that without losing yourself, that’s cause for hope.” 

Sam sits across the table from Dean. He’s gesturing with his free hand, all short, sharp movements and his Godawful eyebrows raised over his Godawful eyes and – 

“Even without a cure.”

And Sam looks so fucking hopeful. So fucking insistent. It’s like he’s begging Dean to agree. 

“Yeah,” says Dean, and he can’t hold Sam’s eyes, so he looks at the table, but then he remembers that Sammy knows all his tells, so Dean swallows, nods, looks back at Sam: “maybe.” 

Even though Dean is trying so Goddamn hard to keep Sammy’s hopes up, Sammy’s face drops. 

But then there are footsteps in the doorway that draw both of their gazes, and Cas walks in, looking a little clueless and surprised – like he always does when he comes into a room. 

“So,” Dean says, grateful for the interruption and wanting to draw Sam away from dangerous waters. “Where’s the Blade?” As if he expects Cas to answer him – as if – but Dean’s heart thuds hard in his chest and he wants – fuck, he wants the Blade back so badly it makes his teeth itch. 

Cas fixes him with one of his full-on concerned-mother looks, like he can read Dean right to his bones. “Somewhere safe,” he answers. 

Dean nods. He swallows again, because his voice feels tight and hot in his throat. “Good.” 

Sammy looks at Dean again. Fuck, Dean can’t stay here. He tried. He fucking tried acting normal, okay? But he can’t fucking stay here. Not with both of them staring at him. 

“Well, if you guys will excuse me, I think I’m gonna go sleep for about four days.” He attempts to make his voice light, but it still sounds like too much of a growl, and Sam and Cas keep looking at him, even though Sam smiles too wide, breathes something that might be a laugh. 

“Course,” says Sam, like their playacting in that stupid play at that stupid high school: just reading their lines. 

Dean feels Sam’s eyes on his back as he leaves. It strikes Dean suddenly, with an alarming flash of panic, that he has to walk right by Cas on his way out the door, but he grits his teeth and he fucking does it: claps Cas on the shoulder, hangs on for a second too-long because he needs Cas’s steady strength and heat to take the next step into the hallway. Then he leaves. 

He feels strange and unbalanced. He should have eaten something. The coffee sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach, reminding him of getting sick on the side of the highway, and he wonders disjointedly what would happen if he just gave in right now, crashed to his knees in the hallway and decided he wasn’t going to take another step. 

He hears muffled voices behind him. Cas says, “How is he? Sam?” And Sam murmurs something too low for Dean to hear. 

Dean wants to run. He doesn’t want to think about Cas and Sam talking behind his back in the kitchen. Worrying about him. Grappling for some kind of shit plan that won’t work. Dean doesn’t want to face the thought of Cas putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder, of rubbing slow circles into Sam’s shirt as Sam bows his head over his hands on the table and tries not to cry because that’s where _Dean’s_ supposed to be and –

Dean makes it to his bedroom in time before his breath seizes inside his chest for the third time that night, but this time he lets himself drop boneless to the floor because there’s no one there to see him. 

He curls up tight into a ball. He’s struck by the strange, disembodied memory of himself as a little kid, when everything would get too loud and too hot and too itchy and full. It’s like he’s looking at himself from above, remembering a blond kid with chubby cheeks and a voice that didn’t work and being unable to reconcile that child with himself, with bloodlust scratching through his veins and Sammy and Cas talking in the kitchen – so fragile and human and it would be so easy for Dean to just snap their fucking necks – 

Just grab his gun his knife his machete and hack them all to pieces. 

God, he can smell their blood, heavy in the air. 

_Even without a cure,_ Sam had said. Even without a fucking cure. And Sam has no idea – no idea how hard Dean’s trying. How Goddamn hard he’s –

And _even without a cure._

Dean can’t. 

Sam doesn’t understand how much Dean _can’t_. How absolutely sure Dean is that he will fail. That Dean will give up like he always gives up, because it’s not like this is Dean’s first rodeo, is it? Not the first time Dean’s bowed readily, enthusiastically to the idea of satiating his poisonous bloodlust. Dean already knows he’s shit when it comes to holding up under torture. 

Because he’s weak. 

He is so fucking weak. And so beyond undeserving of Sam’s hope, his Goddamn reliance on Dean like Sammy’s still eight-years-old and his big brother is still some kind of hero. 

Dean’s never been worth that. 

It would be better if –

And Dean has been close so many times. In that Wallmart parking lot after Sammy left for school. Locked in that room with Sam and that rabid-dog Croatoan virus. After he told Sam and Cas he was poison and left them on that bridge, spent the night in a motel with a bottle of Jack in one hand and his pistol in the other and the only thing that kept him from pulling the trigger was knowing that Abaddon and Gadreel were still out there. And Dean would do anything – _anything_ – to make this better for Sammy. 

Shit lot of good that did. 

And he should have – while he had the chance, he should have – because now it’s too late. And if he’d just made his move before now, if he’d just had the courage to do what needed to be done all those years ago – well, the world would be a helluva lot better off. Sammy and Cas and everyone else who’s been dragged into Dean’s shit over the years. 

They’d all be so much better off. 

Dean presses his nails into his palms until the pinch drags him back into his body. He rolls himself onto his back and breathes from his stomach, concentrating on the feel of the cold stone under his back, all the different points of pain throbbing in his body. He should get up: get into bed like he told Sam and Cas. Maybe he could grab his headphones, put up the volume on his music until it drowned out his thoughts. Grab the half-empty bottle of JD under the bed. 

He stares at the ceiling until his eyes sting, until he has to blink and tears roll from the corner of his eyes to behind his ears. He thinks about Purgatory. How it took him months to get used to the feeling of sleeping in a bed again. The gritty, sweaty feel of the air in his lungs as he cut through monster after monster. No consequences. Just death. 

Someone knocks on his door, softly. Dean knows it’s Cas without having to ask, because even when Cas can’t teleport, he moves like a frikken whisper. Sam’s always clunking around with his gargantuan feet. 

“Yeah?” Dean chokes, sitting up quickly so he’s leaning against the baseboard of his bed. He rubs his sleeve across his eyes. 

Cas eases the door open. “You said you were going to sleep,” he says gently, when his eyes fall on Dean on the floor. It might be a reprimand; Dean can’t tell. Sometimes Cas just sounds like cardboard. 

“Yeah, well…” says Dean, and he doesn’t know what to add, so he just shrugs. 

“You are, um,” says Cas, fidgeting around what else to say, because clearly he’d been expecting some kind of wiseass quip. “Is there, ah, something wrong?” 

Cas’s blatant concern and confusion, coupled with the ridiculous question, startles a bark of laughter from Dean. “I’m peachy, man,” he says. 

Maybe angels can’t blush, but Cas certainly looks like he wants to. “I, ah, meant is there anything wrong besides the, ah….” 

The brief spark of fire that ignited in Dean’s chest when he laughed is almost immediately extinguished. His body feels damp and cold. “Besides the fact I could turn into a psychotic killer at any moment? No.” 

Almost unconsciously, Dean rests his palm against the Mark. It doesn’t burn. At least not to the touch. But it’s always there. He can feel energy from it tingling up his arm. It thuds with his heartbeat. 

Cas takes a tentative step into Dean’s room. Dean knows he should invite him in, but he’s so exhausted, so bone tired, he can’t imagine muddling through more pleasantries right now. He half-way wants to tell Cas to get the hell out. 

Half-way wants to plead for Cas to stay. 

Dean doesn’t really want to be alone, right now. Even though he knows he should be. He should beg Sammy to lock him back up in the storage closet. Strap him to the chair under the devil’s trap. Just in case. 

“Does it hurt you?” says Cas, following Dean’s hand on his arm. 

“I’m okay.” 

“That is not what I asked,” Cas berates him softly. 

Cas drops to the floor next to Dean. He sits awkwardly, like he doesn’t understand how to fold his limbs to be comfortable. He props himself up with one hand. He bends both his knees and wraps his other arm around them. 

Dean can’t bear to look at him. 

“Sam is worried about you,” says Cas. 

Dean snorts. “What’s new?” 

“He is –” Cas hesitates, maybe afraid he’s breaking someone’s confidence. But no one in this – this whatever they are – Dean almost thinks _family_ but the word shrivels up inside his head and tastes bitter – no one here has ever been especially good at keeping secrets. “He believes you’re keeping too much to yourself, that sharing might make things…easier.” 

“Yeah, well, therapy’s always been Sammy’s tagline,” says Dean, and there’s something too-tight in his chest again. The whole day’s he’s been gagging over this feeling: the sharp bite of panic on the edge of his mind, everything spiraling out of control. 

“Are you going to sleep?” Cas asks, like he _knows_ somehow. 

Dean swallows hard to get past the sharp nob in his throat. “Eventually.” 

“Dean,” Cas begins. And Dean sees him freaking _steer_ himself to keep talking. “Is it that you’re afraid that when you wake up…” Cas guesses, and Dean doesn’t let him finish. 

“That _I_ won’t wake up.” Dean gulps. The words taste like blood, but maybe that’s just the aftertaste of the bile sitting ready in his throat. “The last time I touched the Blade…I woke up and I was –”

“The last time you were dead, Dean,” says Cas, like it’s in anyway that simple. 

Dean’s heart thumps in his throat. So hard it hurts. “We can’t pretend to know how the fucking Blade works.” 

“You cannot stay awake forever,” says Cas. 

Dean doesn’t answer. He stares at the floor. At the water stains he tried to work out of the stone when he first moved his stuff in. For a while he thought about getting a rug, making the cold gray box feel a little more welcoming. 

There’s no point for that anymore. It’s not like Dean will be around much longer to enjoy it. 

He wants his razor, he thinks abruptly and starkly, so loudly Cas must’ve heard it. But there’s no way Dean can get it without Cas becoming suspicious. Instead, Dean curls his hands into fists, focuses on the ache of his knuckles, and bite of his nails into his palms. 

“Dean,” says Cas, watching every move. His hand spasms oddly on the floor, almost like he meant to reach out and grab one of Dean’s hands, and Dean wishes –

Because it might be easier. Might be easier if someone held Dean’s hands, kept them from hurting anyone else. It might be easier if Dean could just open his Goddamn mouth and tell Cas that he’s been chewing on Cain’s words all night: _My story began when I killed my brother and that’s where your story inevitably will end._ And tell Cas that Dean’s been dreaming of Hell almost nonstop since he first got the Mark, more vividly then he has in years, feeling Alastair’s hands all over his body again, feeling the promise, the pride in the demon’s voice _let’s see what you’ve got, Deano._

But there’s no easy way for Dean to ask Cas to hold his hands right now without looking like a total –

“I understand that pain may be a…release,” Cas says slowly. “But you should not hurt yourself.” 

Something almost like a sob rises in Dean’s throat and threatens to choke him. Because Cas has no fucking idea. Dean feels untethered, like he’s walking along the ledge of hysteria. He wants to tell Cas something, tell him that Dean is fucking _fine_ stop asking, stop stop stop 

“Is it alright if I touch you?” Cas asks. That’s what Lisa used to ask, Dean remembers, when he woke up from nightmares and couldn’t breathe. Dean never knew whether it was because she was worried she’d scare him or because she was the one who was scared. 

Dean realizes that Cas really is waiting for permission, so he tries to shrug or nod his head, but his body doesn’t want to cooperate anymore. He opens his mouth. It takes a long second for sound to come out. “I – I don’t know what to do.” 

Cas scoots closer to Dean. “May I?” He asks again. 

Dean shuts his eyes. He swallows nails. Tastes rust. He manages a nod. 

With eyes still closed, Dean feels Cas draw one of Dean’s hands, and then the other, into his lap. He gentle works Dean’s stiffened fingers open. He massages Dean’s palms with his thumb, rubbing over the line of crescent-moon divots in Dean’s skin. 

“Are you cold?” Cas asks. “You’re shivering.” 

Dean opens his eyes again. Cas is looking at him with one of those purely seeing looks, head cocked to the side and forehead wrinkled, like he’s x-raying Dean down to his marrow. And suddenly Cas’s familiarity, his gentleness, his care is all too much. 

Dean’s eyes burn. It’s all too much. 

It’s been a day of all too much and Dean is – Dean is done. He wants it to be over now. And the knowledge that it can’t be over, no matter how desperately Dean wants it to be, no matter what Dean tries, it can’t be over – the weight of that feels like it’s crushing him. 

“Dean,” Cas says, so softly, so Goddamn compassionately Dean wants to scream. “Would you –” Cas hesitates. “Would you prefer it if your brother were here, instead of me?” 

Dean doesn’t understand why Cas’s asking, until he suddenly realizes he’s crying. Dean is crying: just slow, steady tears spilling warmly down his cheeks. 

“N-no,” Dean says with difficulty, because his throat is clogged and aching. He pulls his right hand out of Cas’s grip so he can rub his face. He tugs his other hand free, too, even though he doesn’t want to. 

“When I was a human,” Cas begins tentatively. “I was not a stranger to the feeling of despair.” 

Dean folds his fingers together. He presses his knuckles under his chin, resisting the urge to take his fingers into his mouth and bite. 

“There were moments,” Cas pauses again to take a deep breath, and for the millionth time Dean wonders if angels need to breath, or if it’s simply something their human vessels keep up automatically. “Moments in which I felt truly lost. I wondered whether it would be worth it to keep going. The world felt so vast. So insurmountable. And I felt so unimaginably small.”

Dean’s still crying, like something inside him simply decided it couldn’t stay capped anymore. He’s not making any noise; it’s just slow tears slithering one by one down his cheeks, too quickly to rub them away, so Dean unthreads his fingers, dips his forehead to his knees and lifts his arms over his head, grips his hair, tugs until it hurts. 

“It is going to be alright, Dean,” Cas says. “I understand you may not believe it. But you don’t need to. Because your brother and I? We will believe for you.”

Dean concentrates on breathing through his nose. He knows he’s not fooling Cas: Cas can see his shaking shoulders. But Dean still doesn’t want him to hear. 

“I can’t die,” Dean whispers. He tried to tell Sam, but this isn’t something Sam will ever be able to hear. It’s not fair of Dean to put it on his brother, anyway. Not fair of Dean to put it on anyone, really, but the words spill out of his lips before he can stop them. “And I…every day I check to see, but I…And even if I tried. Really tried. Even then I’d just wake up as a demon again. No point in hurrying things along, right?” 

There’s more Dean wants to say, but his throat closes in. _But I wish. I wish so badly that I – and today was my chance. I should have let Cain take me out when he had the Blade._

“Oh, Dean,” says Cas, like that’s the worst thing Dean has ever said to him. Dean feels like dirt, for hurting his friends like this. Nothing ever changes. It’s a year later, and Dean’s still poison. 

“I wish there was a way for me to make you understand how deeply we would feel your loss,” Cas whispers. There are gentle fingers on Dean’s hands again, softly disentangling his fingers from his hair. “Your brother and I, Dean. I wish I could make you see how hard we will fight for you.” 

It takes a few tries to make Dean’s throat work. “I know you already promised,” he starts, and coughs because his voice is barely audible. “But I understand you…you won’t be able to without your Grace. So just…just get your Grace back, Cas, and then, maybe….”

“I will not smite you, Dean,” Cas says flatly. 

Panic stabs through Dean’s chest. He looks up. He is cold all over. “You promised.” 

“Sam and I, we will find a way.” 

“You – you can’t make Sammy – Sammy won’t – and you promised.” 

Dean is aware he sounds like a child. _You promised. Mommy promised angels were watching. She promised –_

“You’re exhausted,” Cas says unhappily. “You shouldn’t be on the floor.” 

The knife in Dean’s chest won’t go away. He tries to breathe around it, but it hurts his lungs, makes his throat fill with bubbling blood again. 

“You can’t let me hurt him,” Dean chokes out. 

“You won’t let yourself,” Cas says, with certainty that makes Dean want to sob. Cas grips Dean’s arm and gently prods him to his feet. Dizziness tips inside Dean’s head, because he’s running on fumes and hasn’t eaten anything all day. 

Dean runs his tongue over his lips. “You can’t know that.” 

Cas eases Dean onto the bed. He leaves his hand around his arm and squeezes gently. “I know that you are stronger than you think.” 

Dean is so sick of being strong. For once. For one Goddamn minute he wants to forget about being strong. 

Cas places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and softly presses him to the mattress, because Dean forgot that’s what they were doing. Dean is so desperately tired. So tired of everything. His eyes itch. Dried tear tracks are sticky on his face. He can feel himself melting into the memory foam. 

Dean pushes himself to the top of his bed. He turns onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest, back to Cas. 

“If you’d like…?” Cas says from behind Dean, and Dean looks over his shoulder to see Cas is already shaking down his sleeve, approaching Dean’s forehead with two raised fingers. 

“No, Cas, don’t waste your mojo on me.”

Cas smiles. One of those purely human ones. It looks sad, and it makes Dean sad that the only times Cas looks human is when he’s hurting. Otherwise he just looks puzzled. A little pissed off. “It is not a waste.” 

Dean has been angel-mojoed to sleep before: heavy and dreamless. Out like a flick of a switch. And Dean’s body almost aches with the desire for it. His heart continues to beat too-fast against his ribs. 

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Cas whispers. 

Dean shuts his eyes. He hates himself, but he nods, and Cas’s fingers touch Dean’s temple: just the tips, and then there’s only darkness. Sweet and endless.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I psychoanalyze the boys, dissect incredibly minute details about the show, post bits and pieces about my fic, and look for friends: [foolondahill17](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/foolondahill17)


End file.
